


With Warring Hearts

by rashaka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Drabbles, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, I WANT MORE, One-Shots, Pornographic, Romance, Smut, Their Love Is So, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, best ship ever, these two are so hot, yet also sweet and also toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/pseuds/rashaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison and Derek: the hunter knight and the wayward wolf.  A collection of shorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Cannot Quit Me So Quickly

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by [strayedfromdestiny](http://strayedfromdestiny.tumblr.com/): "Giving her the bite because she's dying and he /can't/ lose her."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [strayedfromdestiny](http://strayedfromdestiny.tumblr.com/): "Giving her the bite because she's dying and he /can't/ lose her."

The wound is terrible, help is far away, and they are negotiating over her life.

"Scott needs you," he insists.  "The pack needs you.  If I don’t give you the bite you’ll never leave here."

"I can’t be a wolf for them," she says with a thick voice. “I can’t be a wolf for anyone. I’m not supposed to be like you."

Something in his stony facade cracks, and when she shudders he pulls her limp body half into his lap. “Allison,  _please_ ," he snaps. “Just let me do it. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you’re  _dying_.  Let me save you."

"Hey," she chuckles, blood leaking from the corner of her mouth. “I think big, mean—hgnh—Derek Hale—hn—likes me."

"I do like you," avows Derek, whom yesterday wouldn’t have offered her a stick of gum, much less his precious supernatural gift. “I like you, Argent. More than I should."

He touches her face, a gentle caress with the pads of his fingers. “And if you die before I get the chance to screw up both our lives over it, I’ll be unhappy. I’ll probably have to kill someone to avenge you."

"You’d be that—sad—for me, huh?"

"I won’t have this conversation while you’re dying."

Allison’s whole body seizes for a moment, and Derek presses both palms tight to her wound. There’s only minutes now.  More blood has spilled between them, oozing from her torso onto his jeans.

"Will it change me?"

"Not the part of you that matters."

She inhales, her ribs rising under the pressure of his hands. Her questions are plaintive, almost an afterthought to her pain. “What if I’m bad at it? What if—-I hurt people?"

His response is firm.  Not just the voice of an Alpha, but the voice of one born to this curse: “Allison, I swear on my family’s legacy that I’ve never met a person more capable of handling it."

Where she's grabbed his arm he can feel her fingers losing grip as greater quantities of blood seep out of her side.  Derek doesn’t want to look—doesn’t have to look—because he can actually smell her bones oxidizing in the air from her gaping flesh.  She gasps, high and thready; his lungs heave in sympathy. 

“ _Allison_ ," he begs.

"Okay," she whispers, and her eyes slip shut.


	2. Home For A Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You blew me up." 
> 
> "Have some water," she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the anonymously perfect prompt: " _Allison rescues Derek from something or another_."
> 
> Chapter title is from the crazy-fun drinking song by Spirit of the West. Look it up! If lycanthropy is like alcoholism then it's a solid metaphor for Derek's life in Beacon Hills.

 

**Home For A Rest**

  
From the floor between the two Alphas, Derek's discarded burner phone emits a tinny, fervent voice. They both look at it, then Derek spins and uses all his superhuman power to push his legs faster, further. It's not enough.  
  
 _"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"_  
  
Light hits first, incinerating the air beneath and behind him. Next the sound crashes through his body, and with it a canon of energy that throws him thirty feet into a steel-reinforced cement barrier. His inner ears go, the drums shredding so fast they might as well have evaporated. He can't even hear his own scream when the fibrocartilage between his spinal vertebrae compresses and he folds like wet paper.  
  
There are feet running toward his tunneling vision, small and quick, but they waver and swerve into a field of black spots on blue. He tries to blink away the lights, can't. Someone grabs his limp arm and starts to drag him along the gravel, and then wakefulness blessedly ceases to matter. He closes his eyes.  
  
  
He opens his eyes.   
  
Stars blink above him, and he's stretched spread-eagle on the back of a pick-up that smells like Chris Argent. Someone's heartbeat thrums in the cab of the truck, which means his ears are working again.  
  
He closes his eyes.  
  
  
He opens his eyes. The ceiling is a dull white with pitted holes in the paint, and everything smells like detergent. Experimentally, he raises his head. Pain shoots down his neck, but to Derek's grim satisfaction he does manage to bring up his torso halfway. For a moment he's sure he won't make it, but then a pair of small, cool hands push him the rest of the way. Sitting up at last, he looks at Beacon Hills' youngest hunter in horrified awe.  
  
"You blew me up."  
  
"Have some water," she says, and holds out a cheap water bottle with the cap already off. He reaches for it, misses, and grabs his head as a volcano erupts behind his eyes. When he has his sense back, she takes his hand and wraps it around the plastic bottle for him. He drinks half of it, wincing the whole time.  
  
"Where's my pack?"  
  
Allison smirks, and takes the water back to pour it on a rag so he can wipe his face. "Still at the basketball game in Derry, with Scott. They didn't know you'd go after Shauna yourself, because they haven't figured out yet that their Alpha is an idiot."  
  
Holding his hands to his forehead, Derek tries to process one thought at a time. Her nattering voice is a distraction, but he focuses on it as the one stable part of a spinning room. First, smell: water and soap and too many chemicals. Second, sound: the soft whir of machines, the rolling tumble-thump of overloaded dryers. Third, touch: he's sitting on a metal table and it's cold as the ninth circle of Hell.  
  
"Where am I?"  
  
"Basement of our building," she replies, and gives him back the water bottle with a smile. "Laundry room. I didn't call your pack because I knew you'd be fine, and I didn't think you'd want them to see you vulnerable. That sort of thing is bad for Alphas, right?"  
  
Derek lets out a hoarse, coughing laugh. "They're not going to  _challenge_  me just because I show up wounded. Erica might have, some day, but I already ruined that, didn't I?"  
  
Allison doesn't say anything about the last part, but she offers him another gift: a smooshed PB&J sandwich wrapped in a paper towel. He takes it, turns it over to look for some kind of trap, glances up at her offended expression, then shoves it in his mouth in three bites. The crust tastes faintly of gunpowder.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
With a shrug, she plays it off.  "All that blood made me lose my appetite."   
  
This makes him grin, and he wants to needle her for playing where she doesn't belong. "So even you get squeamish somet--"   
  
He falters, the vicious satisfaction dying on his tongue. He stares at Allison and says inelegantly, "God, I'm on your  _list_ , aren't I?"  
  
Instantly, her defenses rise. "What list?"  
  
"The list of 'idiots' you save at the last minute."  
  
If glares were manifestations of literal intent, his skin would be melting under this one. "I do  _not_  have a list."  
  
"Right, because that would be practical."  
  
"And if I  _did_  have a list, you wouldn't be on it."  
  
"Sure." He grimaces as he swings his legs down to the floor, and gingerly puts his weight on them. They hold, and he breathes a little easier.  
  
"I can't believe I hauled your dense carcass all the way to my truck," she mutters, and truthfully Derek is a little surprised about that too. Full-grown werewolves aren't renown for their lightweight mass. She watches him walk, skeptical.  "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
"Home," he says. "If you can give me a lift."  
  
With a put-upon sigh that he's pretty sure is affected, Allison opens the door and guides him out of the laundry room. She drapes his leather jacket (burnt and nearly disintegrated) over his shoulders to hide the blood stains on his shirt, then waves cheerfully at the night guard as they leave the lobby. By the time they reach Chris's truck, he's strong enough to open the door and climb in on his own.  
  
"So, Derek," she says as the engine starts. "Where do you live again? Hades Boulevard?"  
  
The smile this gets is real, and it makes his bruised face ache. "Pretty much."  
  
She drives. He closes his eyes.


	3. Two Sheets of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drifting apart like two sheets of ice, my love  
> Frozen hearts growing colder with time  
> There's no heat from our mouths
> 
> I needed you to run through my veins like disease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired from [this picspam](http://rashaka.tumblr.com/post/55984380793/i-needed-you-to-run-through-my-veins-like) by [onyxeyes](http://onyxeyes.tumblr.com/post/55975630999/i-needed-you-to-run-through-my-veins-like-disease) and the lyrics to "Winter" by Daughter.

"You’ve been around Derek a lot lately," Lydia says as she puts her new dress on a hanger. She smooths out any imperfections with her perfectly lacquered fingers before placing it on the closet rack, and Allison watches her friend’s face for a hidden meaning. “What’s that like?"

Allison lets her breath out slowly, and takes a sip of her soda. She doesn’t look away from Lydia’s questioning eyes and she doesn’t even shift her weight on the bed. “We’re not friends or anything," she says after an appropriately thoughtful pause. “When there’s conflict, we work together better, that’s all. Scott’s always too distracted worrying about me, so if we split up he takes Isaac. You and Stiles can’t exactly fight, so I end up with Derek."

Smacking her lips together in a pretense for checking her lip gloss, Lydia picks up a cream blouse from the laundry basket, holds it out for scrutiny, then looks at Allison over shoulder of the fabric.

"And you don’t think Derek worries about you?"

_Rough hands skim the hem of her top, and she can’t breathe as his lips climb the column of her throat. They’re up against the wall of his loft, red brick abrading her back through her shirt, and for once they aren’t dropping clothes like breadcrumbs._

_This time, there’s no hurry. Her legs haven’t scissored around his hips, and Derek hasn’t pulled her hair back to consume her mouth like a proverbial beast of fairy tale men. His place is empty, she doesn’t have to be home for hours, and all Allison can feel is a soft, bubbling thrill when his lips seduce hers._

 

Perched on the mattress, in the peace of Lydia’s bedroom, Allison’s expression is a chiseled statue.

"No."

 

_His breath warms the back of her neck, making her curl deeper into her pillow when he confesses, “I was scared today."_

_What would her mother say? “Fear is a waste of willpower." You’re fucking a monster, and not even the best one._

_He sighs and runs a hand down the line of her hip. “I know. But when he came at you I thought you had—”_

_"I didn’t. I won’t."_

_"But what if next—”_

_She shifts on the bed, pulling the sheet up to cover her shoulder, and tries not to sound too much like Victoria when she says, “Don’t you get it, Derek? I know you think everything you touch evaporates, but that’s not how this story goes. You have to have something in order to lose it."_

_"Of course." The soft touch on Allison’s back recedes like a wave. Gone for now, but it’ll be back._ _In the dark, he whispers, “My mistake."_


	4. We Gotta Kill This Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison gets a ride home from some guy named Derek on the night of the full moon, and it's beaucoup awkward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genre: Humor, UST
> 
> Spoilers: Episode 1x01
> 
> Inspiration: A gift for an anonymous prompt on tumblr, requesting season 1 chemistry and the pilot episode. I don't know if this is quite what you were looking for, but I hope you'll get a kick out of it!

"So..." Allison says to fill the time. Derek's Camaro is stylish, definitely a cool way to leave a party, but the inside is so clean she's afraid to breathe lest she mark something. It reminds Allison momentarily of her mother's Prius, which perpetually looks as if it were just back from the car-wash. Her eyes drift to the young man in the driver's seat, examining his outift. Neat top, casual jacket, snug jeans. He belongs in this car; they're practically a matched set.

"How long have you known Scott?"

Derek's eyes don't leave the road. "Not long, I just moved back to town."

Turning in her seat, Allison grins. "Yeah? I just moved here. We lived upstate for most of my life, but my dad and grandpa used to make business trips down here all the time.."

It's only because she's spent the last minute scrutinizing his attractiveness that she notices his mouth clench slightly. She gets that reaction sometimes, when people remember her family's fortune comes from the arms business. He follows up with merely an affirmative-sounding grunt, so Allison tries a different angle.

Humming, she runs her hand along the jet black dashboard, fingers feathering over its chrome accents. "This is a great car."

That does the trick: his eyes track her fingers on their path over the black surface. Allison hides her triumph behind an easy, nonthreatening smile.

"Thank you," he says, and he finally glances at her. It's just for a second, only a flick of the head, but it takes Allison's breath away. Long lashes frame Derek's eyes; his smile is a quick promise of white teeth and shared secrets. After a moment, he adds, "It was a gift from my sister when I turned twenty-one."

Impressed, Allison raises her eyebrows and her smile widens. Almost without thinking, her gaze rakes over him again. Outwardly, he's the opposite of Scott: confident, broad, aware of his own attractiveness and filling the space around him with crackling energy. Allison imagines the muscles underneath that jacket, and a new idea sweeps through her. It barrels through her insecurities, screams past the little voice in the back of her head, and slams right up against the wall that's kept Allison as a good little girl for seventeen years.

She licks her lips, not sure why her mouth is suddenly full of cotton. "And how long ago was that?"

Derek is distracted for a moment as he slows for a stop light, so he answers in an absent-minded way: "Almost two years ago."

Peaking at the street sign above them, Allison realizes they're only a mile from her house. The round, full moon hangs in the window like a wall clock to remind her that all fantasies come to an end. When the hour strikes midnight this car ride will be over, she'll go home, and her window of opportunity will be lost forever.

An opportunity to be bold.

An opportunity to take something without inhibition or regret.

She can practically feel Lydia perched on her shoulder like a tiny, sexy devil cheering her on. The stop light is red now. Soft gold from the street lamps filters through the windshield to cast highlights on Derek's face, and her eyes trace every place the light touches. She's pretty sure she's never been this close to a guy so disarmingly attractive before.

Lydia's voice is insidious: _If you can't be brave when the best is laid before you, when do you plan on being brave?_ Accordingly, Allison's mind produces a vivid picture of herself crawling over the stick shift and planting her knees on either side of Derek's hips.

Leaning in, she asks what his plans are now that he's in town.

"Just fami–"

Derek stops speaking, his mouth drops open, and he abruptly grips the steering wheel in white knuckles. He inhales deeply, then closes his mouth with an audible snap. Intrigued, Allison watches his expression change and wonders what's going on under all that attractive hair. Another inhalation, slowly this time.

In, out.

The leather of the car seat is hot underneath her jeans, and this has to be the longest light in all of Beacon Hills. Derek's whole body looks tense and Allison feels a precipice approaching as she watches him exhale.

In, out.

Slowly, he turns his head to look at his passenger. This time, she's the one who has to remember to breathe.

In.

Out.

If the floor of the car were to open up to swallow Allison Argent whole, it still could not drag her from under the weight of Derek's sudden, voracious attention.

 _He wants to eat me_. It's the first crazy thought that pops into her brain, but it's followed almost immediately with _No. He wants to **eat** me._

She isn't sure which is more frightening.

Not frightening, she realizes as Derek meticulously slides his gaze down her body, then all the way back up again.

 _Exciting_.

"Do you–"

A car horn rips into air, and Derek damn near leaps away. He manages to remain in the driver's seat, but if there were a way for him to crawl out the car window and still steer, Allison is pretty sure he'd have achieved it. She hadn't even noticed how close they'd gotten; now the armrest might as well be the Rhineland after Versailles.

"Where's your house?" he asks in what one could generously call a growl. The engine rumbles as he shifts into gear and clears the intersection.

Gulping, Allison waves toward the empty streets before them. Picturing herself as her red-haired friend, she sits up straight in the leather seat and commands: "Go half a mile, take the third major left onto Jamboree, then right on Santiago."

Derek grunts, but this time Allison finds it less sexy-slash-mysterious and more antisocial-bordering-on-rude. They go another block while she contemplates throwing herself into traffic. Eventually, her patience breaks and she snaps, "Can we please listen to the radio or something?"

"Fuck _yes_ ," agrees Derek, and it's Icona Pop all the way home.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are welcome, a boon to my heart.


	5. Hours and Weeks Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon request for pregnancy fic. Somehow I'm not sure this is what you wanted, heh, but it's what the mood inspired.

Allison is only nineteen when it happens, and the first thing that runs through her head is how badly this is going to disappoint her father. She thinks about it during her History of Western Civilization class and her Social Justice Club. She thinks about it as she passes her friends in the hall and when she waves at her roommate that she wants to be alone. When Allison flips open her computer to Skype with Lydia it's all she can do not to spill the secret and hope it gets around to her dad without a phone call even being necessary. Because the conversation is coming. It's unavoidable, omnipresent. She can picture the confrontation in all its escalating drama:

_You're a freshman, Allison, what the hell were you thinking?_   
_Your mother would know what to say for this._   
_I didn't send you away from an early death in Beacon Hills just to see your life shattered by some piss-ant at a party with too many vodka shots._   
_Four years, Allison, four years at a state school! All you had to do was get your degree and you'd be free, but now you'll be trapped anyway. The cage is different but you'll still be trapped._   
_Who's the father? Are you dating? Does he know?_   
_What are you going to do, Allison?_

_What are you going to do?_

Maybe he'll say those awful things, or maybe he'll be perfect and understanding and tough in his kindness, like the dad she used to have before her life became a never-ending Halloween film. But love or anger, she can't stand the thought of telling him. Almost as much as she can't stand the thought of handling it alone.

Morning sickness hits early, and Allison remembers horror stories from her mother's militant reports of the price paid by the female gender. She spends hours looking up home remedies and survival tips. Even in the afterlife her mom's words follow her like a shadow: _Don't buy that brand, it's a fraud. Walk with your back straight and build up your abdominal muscles while you still can. Hunt down the beast that did this to you then skin his balls or sue him into purgatory. Call your father. Make a choice._

Her grades hold steady, because if lizards and druids and death can't hurt Allison Argent's GPA then a little whatever leeching off her insides certainly isn't going to, either.

"What have you decided?" Lydia asks later, eyebrows raised in the tiny laptop monitor. Of course she tells Lydia first, when it's real and true and she hits the ninth week. The queen and darling of Stanford may have been a gossip-monger in high school, but Lydia Martin does not make light of sex. Allison presses her lips together and wishes for the hundredth time that they'd been able to go to college together. Instead Stiles had followed Lydia to Stanford on criminally high SAT scores, Allison got into one of the reputable CSU's, and Scott has been serving his transfer years at the local community college. Their group is divided. Their formidable army is split.

Allison sighs. "I don't know. You're supposed to wait to tell people until the twelfth week in case it miscarries, and I'm not quite there yet."

"You're referring to your body in the third person," Lydia points out. "Does that make it easier?"

Instead of answering, she says, "I want both. I want school and I want a career and I also want whatever's going to come out of me in seven months."

On the computer screen, Lydia's mouth drops open, and she inches forward. "You said it's been nine weeks?"

"Yes."

Her best friend leans back on her desk chair, arms crossed. "Nine weeks ago was Spring Break. Nine weeks ago you were in Beacon Hills."

"Yes."

"You have two ex- _whatevers_ in Beacon Hills specifically, if I recall."

Allison pushes her hands through her hair and nods, grabbing the brown waves and crushing them in her fingers. "It's worse than that," she admits.

"Oh," breathes Lydia, so soft the mic almost misses it. "Allison, my friend, you have a _type_ alright."

She hangs up after that, because it's been a long nine weeks and she really has no defense against the truth.

Twelve weeks isn't a long time after all, and it only shows a little: a growing softness where once was a core of hardened steel. Allison takes her midterms early, gets the rest of her assignments to go, and packs her bags into her dad's pick up. It's going to be a situation when she tells him, and a whole other, equally terrifying event when she gives the news to Scott and Isaac. She'll have to prepare her mental fortifications and line up the right words for the right rebukes, but in the end it's all gonna be background noise to the real disaster.

 _The real disaster_ is Allison's nickname for the only conversation that has ever truly mattered since this mess began.

With four hours to think about how her life is about to change—how it has already changed—Allison spends her time rehearsing a speech she'd never have imagined two years ago. She whispers it to other drivers on the freeway, and she shouts it the empty seat beside her. She dumps an endless spiel of regret on her invisible villain, until a black car cuts her off in the passing lane and she remembers kisses on leather seats and a strange calmness when hands folded into her hair.

There's crying in that four hours, more than she's proud of. Bathroom stops and junk food and crying at the idea that the conversation will go badly or the conversation will go perfect. Then the song changes on her radio and all Allison can imagine is a tiny, squished face with black hair and happy eyes.

When she rolls into the driveway of his building, unannounced, she tells herself to act like a grown woman. As she climbs the steps to his floor her hands trace the walls and sense memory flings her into the past: Here is where the Alphas came. Here is where Boyd died. This level is where the Darach escaped out three-story window, her ceremony complete and her vengeance achieved. This stairwell is the place where he found Allison bleeding out on her eighteenth birthday and took away her pain until the ambulance arrived.

She stands before the large steel door and remembers how three months ago it held her up while they made out like teenagers, moving from surface to surface and marking every inch of his home with her excitement. Everything in that dizzying week was new and yet familiar, strange yet long-anticipated. He'd been a part of her life for three years; she'd been a part of his for almost ten.

Inescapable, she'd said. Real, he'd promised.

She's come to collect on that promise a little early, but Allison knows that he's the giving one in their little tragic comedy.

When the door bell rings, Derek answers immediately, as if he'd heard her coming from four hours away. He smiles at the sight of her, a genuine variety she thinks few people alive have ever seen. His short, black hair sticks up at all angles, and with a clean-shaven face he looks barely older than herself. Add the white shirt and the grin, and Allison wonders if she's fallen back in time. Maybe the guy before her isn't a bitter warrior after all, just a pleasant young man offering a girl a ride home from a party.

"Hi," she says, smiling in return because she'll never quite get over how beautiful he can be. It's not fair for him to look the same when he's being an asshole that he does when he's being kind. _It's practically inhuman_ , Allison had always told Lydia, and now she wonders if the little whatever will be inhuman too.

When her lips curve up, Allison doesn't hold back. He's here, and she's here, and maybe this doesn't have to be a fight at all.

"Got some news, Derek. You better invite me in."

"What kind of news?" he asks. As she crosses the threshold, Allison grabs his hand and threads her fingers through his. Her voice is strong—buoyed by touch, by memory, by anticipation.

"Pretty real, I think."


	6. Bad Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon request: "Derek talks to Allison about the first time he had to kill someone."

"I watched you during the fight," Allison said, breaking the silence of their prison. They had been stuck in this bunker for nearly an hour, waiting for their captors or a savior to open the steel door. 

Although she and Derek were both in their right minds and relatively unharmed, the situation reminded Allison uncomfortably of the bank vault so many months ago. That had been such a terrible night—finding Erica’s body, learning the truth about her mother—this seemed a vacation by comparison. A few hours in isolation until Scott or her dad rescued them, or the masked figure something returned. She might even be able to get real answers from Derek if he had nowhere to escape to.

Allison continued, “I saw your eyes turn blue. I know what that means, now that you’re not an Alpha anymore.”

Not two feet away, on the adjoining corner, Derek sat with his knees up and his head back against the wall. He rolled his eyes at her, a gesture that oddly made Allison think of Cora. He said nothing. 

If that wasn’t direct enough, maybe it was time to just flat out ask.

“Who did you kill? Who was the innocent?”

“Myself,” he said, stare fixed on the ceiling.

Allison glared while she took a moment to ponder if that were possible (he certainly seemed like the suicidal teenager type) before deciding he was mocking her. She said, “If you want me to trust you, tell me. It matters.”

He let his eyes slide over to meet hers. In the dim light of the single bulb, his irises looked washed out and gray. “You’re here now, willing to fight with me. That means you already trust me. The rest is bogus. You’re just being nosy.”

“I need to know,” she pressed. “Derek—”

“Why?” he snapped.

Before she could blink the werewolf was on his feet and pacing the small, underground room. When he spoke, he sounded furious and tired all at the same time.

“Why do you care? Is it that important to you that I be the bad guy?”

Allison was sorely tempted to tell him that he was a bad guy, but name-calling would only close him up tighter, and she wanted the opposite. She wanted to peel him open, dig inside, and find out what was so damned precious about Derek Hale. Something in that hairy skull made everyone in her life pivot around him. Her aunt had had an affair with Derek only to destroy his family. Scott kept going back to him—for advice, for a fight, for recognition in some weird, brotherhood bullshit he couldn’t get from mere mortals like herself or Stiles. Even Gerard had been obsessed with what Derek could offer him, at the expense of his own children.

Since he had precipitated her mother’s death, then given up his power a mere six months later, Allison found herself equally fixated. Maybe if she could understand how he started down that path, she’d know how to help Scott avoid the same mistakes.

“I want to understand you,” she said honestly. “I want to keep Scott from being just like you in five years, or ten.” 

"Wow, don’t hold back." He sat back down, slumping. "Tell me how you really feel, Argent."

"This is how I feel. I don’t want Scott to have to kill innocent people someday, or Isaac. I want to be there to stop it from even coming close. Please. "

Derek sighed. “It doesn’t matter if you’re there, if it comes to a choice Scott will make his own decision. That’s all that matters.”

It was a valid point, but something about the phrasing tickled her attention.

All this time she’d assumed he hurt someone as a Alpha, or when Peter tried to control him, or maybe he killed someone to trigger Kate’s revenge. For the first time it occurred to Allison that her assumptions about him might be wildly off base. With that in mind, her next question was almost gentle.

"How old were you?"

Their gazes met, and Derek stared at her for a long time before answering. Maybe he was bored, or maybe he wanted to get it off his chest, but his whole body sagged and the fight left him. 

"Fifteen."

Allison’s quick intake of breath was audible to werewolf hearing, but he let it go. 

"I knew this girl, from school," he began. "We were together, and it seemed perfect for a while. But I got…scared. A lot of things were happening with the hunters and the other packs, and it was dangerous. I wanted to tell her what I was, in case anything happened, but Peter said if she knew that she’d reveal us. Peter wasn’t—this was before he was crazy.”

Privately Allison doubted that, but presumably Derek would know his own uncle better than the rest of them could claim to. Odds were that if she said anything, she’d somehow ruin this talkative mood, so she nodded at him in silent encouragement.

"I convinced her to meet me at school one night. Peter had this idea of asking another Alpha to help. I should’ve known to get my mom, my Alpha, but I was stupid about a lot of things. I wanted the Alpha to come later, so that I had time to offer her the bite. I was going to call him if she said no. But he came early, and I didn’t get a chance to warn her before he attacked. He bit her then left, like it was…an errand. Alphas are supposed to stay and help you through it, but nothing was normal about this."

Allison felt a deep pull in her heart for a girl she’d never met. Just like Lydia, she’d been a normal student with what she thought was a normal boyfriend…happy and naive until the day the monsters came. Until one of them ripped into her flesh while she screamed for mercy.

Derek took a few shallow breaths, composing himself. It was a strangely intimate thing to witness another person doing, and Allison looked away until he was ready to speak again.

"She started to cough black blood almost immediately. I took her to the nemeton, I think… it’s hard to remember. Some parts are…missing. We were there, and I hoped it’s magic would help us, but her body rejected the bite. I had to—she was just in so much pain."

He trailed off, allowing the truth to sink in for Allison. This wasn’t what she’d expected. She figured if it happened as a teenager, it would’ve been because he lost control on a full moon at some point, going rabid on a passerby. This felt worse, somehow. Mindlessness was no excuse. His culpability was clear, to Derek more than anyone based on his demeanor through the story. Nonetheless, it wasn’t hard for Allison to imagine how a situation could spiral so far out of control for someone younger even than herself.

She had let grief and loyalty cloud her judgment, and nearly killed Boyd and Erica. In some ways, her family had killed Erica regardless. If she and Gerard hadn’t scared Boyd and Erica into running off, the other girl might still be alive today.

"Why don’t you remember it?" Allison asked eventually. Isaac had mentioned something about this, about werewolf memory tricks, but the idea of someone using that on someone as resilient and strong as Derek was unsettling.

She watched him fold his knees to sit upright, and rub his hand through the hair on the back of his neck. Almost as if he had an itch there, or was touching a scar.

"My mother took my memories," he admitted. "She wanted to spare me from the influence of the Nemeton, but she didn’t take away the violence or the reason everything happened the way it did."

Not knowing exactly what to say, Allison offered consolation. “That all sounds…terrible. I’m sorry for your friend.”

"Yeah."

"You know Peter probably—”

"Yeah," interrupted Derek. "I figured that out a long time ago."

Allison grunted. She fiddled with her thumbs, stretched her fingers, then said, “Well when you’re ready to kill him, I’ll help you.”

Derek didn’t say anything, but he stretched out his leg and nudged her boot with his own. Then he leaned his head back against the wall once more, and closed his eyes. 

Allison knew he wasn’t sleeping, but she let him pretend. Mulling over everything she’d learned, she closed her eyes and did the same.


	7. Struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Derek would be the one to fall in love first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon Derek swears silently to himself throughout the whole show, but is too well-raised to cuss in front of other people.

The first time he looked at Allison—looking for real, not just sizing her up as Scott’s problem or a human weapon to dodge—was in the bathroom of Marin Morrel’s house.  Allison took two steps past one of the hallway doors, spun, and declared, “This is the bathroom. No way it’s in here.”

The pair of them were breaking and entering, which Derek objected to right up till he hoisted himself in through the second story window.  A waxing three-quarter moon hung in the sky, singing to him through the walls, and there was a possibility this place was booby-trapped for his kind.  He would've chosen to knock on the front door, demand the guidance counselor hand over the prize, and face the consequences head on.  Skulking around like a thief in a Morell's home territory when he could easily intimidate her in person felt like a waste of time.

In hindsight, he didn’t regret the wasted night, because for the first time he stared at the young woman and truly saw her.  It was her senior year, it was the day before his birthday, they were in a goddamn druid’s house hunting for a magic ring of all things, and  _it_  happened.

Allison Argent just had to go and turn around, eyes all shadowy and lips dark in the small window's ghost light, and scowl at Derek with the most adorably disgruntled expression he had ever seen.  As if this bathroom, this house, and this stupid quest had been created for the sole purpose of vexing her.  The heir of the Argent legacy and the veritable princess of Beacon Hills drama should not be reduced to sneaking around and trying to figure out the doors in someone else’s house.  

"Derek?"

Under so much darkness, a human wouldn’t have seen the detail he could.  Her eyes, her mouth, her skin: Derek had never seriously taken them into account before.  She wore a brown turtleneck and her hair in a pony tail; slight tendrils puffed out around her ears, loosened from the exertion of criminal activity.  In the bathroom mirror, her profile was stunning, a reflection of someone so beautiful it took his breath away.

"Derek!" she hissed a second time.  He blinked, looked her head to toe, and raised his eyebrows.  Allison whispered, "You’re blocking the door," so he moved aside.

"We need to find the closet Stiles talked about," she announced as she strode past him into the hallway.  He watched her ass sway in the shadows, and Derek knew right then that he'd never look at Allison again without seeing someone that he wanted.

Holy shit, he  _wanted_  Allison Argent.  

The knowledge splintered above him like an avalanche, dropping stone after stone of revelation.  After nearly two years of working together and the relief of knowing she'd always be there, weapon in hand and fortitude unbreakable, Derek finally realized that the weight in his chest lately wasn’t guilt or anger.  Simply, it was desire.

Derek had learned to mistrust desire over the years.  Desire was poison.  Normal people were allowed to fall in love and chase whomever they liked, but the impulse had always ended horribly in his case.  He could count the failures like a mantra: Braeden tossing him a letter and destroying his tires before she went to work for their enemy.  Vanessa the hunter, exiled to Mexico for treason.  Jennifer, dead with her victims.  Kate, cut down with her pride.  Paige, now a shadowy memory of loss.  It wouldn't be a stretch to say that Derek had given up on passion altogether.  

Funny how all that conviction disappeared in two years and a single heartbeat. 

As he watched her, Derek was struck by the urge to dig his fingers through Allison’s hair and kiss her cheekbones till her scowl disappeared in a smile.  He imagined running his hands over the fabric of her clothes until her scent covered him.  He wanted to pick her up and put her back against the wall, but he also vaguely wanted to ask if she was okay.  If she was hungry, or happy, or sad.  If she would notice if he left and miss him til he returned.  Derek wanted to know what she thought of him beyond pack politics, beyond so much history and violence.

He just…wanted.

In the darkness Derek mouthed a curse.

"Nevermind the ring, let's get out of here," sighed Allison.  She stalked back the way they came, her shape a sinuous curve when she looked over her shoulder. "You coming?"  

"Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ," he breathed.  This was going to ruin everything.


	8. Drabble Collection 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a chunk of minifics from my Askbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago I wrote a bunch of Ask Box fanfics for tumblr shippers.

 

_Alpha_

 

Derek growled, eyes gone to vivid color, and it triggered an automatic response in Allison.  She grabbed his throat with her hand and snarled, hauling him off-balance and bring his face right to hers.  Her irises gleamed red, and Derek looked away, all resistance evaporating in a heartbeat.

Allison gasped and dropped her grip on his neck, stepping back.  She stared at her extended claws in shock.  "I apologize," she blurted.

With a shake of his head, Derek said, "I shouldn't have provoked you when you don't know your limits yet.  You'll learn."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Dig_

 

Allison hissed when her back hit the tree bark, so she returned the favor by digging her nails into the base of his neck. Her fingers curled around short black hairs and left scratches she knew would disappear the moment she removed her hand.  This was the most frustrating about Derek—about all these damn werewolves. She couldn't mark them the way they could mark her.  Everything, even hickeys, vanished to pristine skin.

It was a lie; there was nothing clean here.

"Fuck you," she murmured, wrapping her legs around his.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Three_

 

"Okay," said Allison, "This isn't a disaster.  We can—I can—work with this."

Her eyes jumped from Scott's panting chest to Derek's flushed neck.  The two stood unnervingly close, and her mind flashed to the moment she'd entered the room: Scott's hand traveling along Derek's collarbone, a light touch she knew well.  Neither had stepped back, but the conflict on their faces told a story all its own.

Allison looked from her boyfriend to her ex.  "Okay," she repeated as her eyes slid over their bare skin.  "Just give me a minute to adjust."

 

 

* * *

 

_Kiss_

 

"Hey there," Derek murmured, resting his chin on Allison's shoulder. He encircled her with his arms and snuck his hands into her jacket pockets—a strangely affectionate gesture he'd developed since their relationship went public. It wasn't that Derek liked excessive PDA, just that he'd finally stopped worrying what other people saw.

Allison hummed as she leaned back, letting her neck relax as she nudged his cheek. He kissed her forehead, making a soft sound that lulled her into a sigh.

 

 

* * *

 

_Something Old_

 

Scrounging through the contents of the storage bin, Derek shoved aside bubble wrap and items destined for a yard sale.  He'd retrieved little from the fire, but his mom had put his grandparents' stuff in storage the year before.  Cora gave him the idea to check; she'd sworn it was packed away here.  

When his fingers closed around a small, soft box, Derek pulled his hand free and grinned.

"Find anything good?" Allison asked from across the storage locker.

"Not much," he replied, and tucked it away safely.

 

 

* * *

 

_Tandem_

 

Thrown back several feet, Derek hit the ground and rolled, hands scrambling for anything to defend himself.  His grip closed around a rock from the camp's abandoned firepit, and with a leap he used it to smash the head of a zombie going for Allison's side.  She shouted his name, and a moment later they were back to back, bodies heaving and weapons high.  

"That was too close," he snaped, but Allison surprised him with a laugh.  

"Know what I just realized?  If we make it out, I might get some tonight.  So I planning on living."

 

 

* * *

 

_Fever_

 

He kicked last vampire in the stomach just before it could rip into Allison's throat, yanked it off her, and plunged his hand effortlessly into its chest.  Heartless, the creature dropped and Derek reached to give her a hand up.  She grabbed it without hesitation, ignoring the blood that coated him to his forearm.  

They stood face to face, a pair surrounded by fallen monsters, with their friends in various states of recovery.  

The air that passed between them felt charged, electric almost.  Caught up in the feeling, he leaned in, but Allison shook her head.

"Not here."  She wiped a dab of blood from his forehead, and reluctantly put some space between them.  "Just...not here."

 

 

* * *

 

_2017_

 

"Come on," Allison said, catching his fingers with both her hands. "Everyone dances at weddings."

Derek rolled his eyes but let the bridesmaid drag him forward.  She didn't look like a hunter tonight; with every movement the whisper of silk on nylons sang out to his supernatural hearing.  The heels of a hundred guests pounded the dance floor, and Allison's smile was an island in a sea of color.

Scott would likely kill him for this.  But Scott was a busy bridegroom, and—

—it was only one dance.

 

 

 

 


	9. Bastogne, 1944

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon prompt: world war ll. Derek is a solider and gets an injury and goes to the hospital where he meets a nurse named Allison. Love against the backdrop of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gore and fluff. please forgive any historical incongruencies.

_1944_

"I know what you are," the nurse whispers furiously while his stretcher rattles down the hallway of the triage center. Prone and barely cognizant, Lt. Derek Hale concentrates on her voice to drown out the echo of soldiers sobbing or moaning in their beds, the drip of fluid bags or the crunch of a bone saw at work. The the hospital cocophany is nearly as upsetting as the battlefront, made worse because bandages cover his eyes and his nose is continuously overwhelmed with the smell of wet and dried blood.

Under the cotton his skin writhes and burns as his human shape works to knit itself back together, but the blasts’s damage is catastrophic. It takes too long and costs too much; soon he’ll lose consciousness altogether. He’s dead himself if that happens here, surrounded by so much fear and pain. Derek can feel parts of his body already shifting out of control underneath the bandages, and the constant scent of blood makes him wild, distracted, enraged. All it takes is one witness, one glimpse of claw or fang, and he’ll never leave this place alive.

This strange woman who smells like gun oil and sickness has already seen too much.  Still fighting for awareness, Derek listens to her whisper promises of safety and secrecy as she wheels him further and further away from his platoon. Even if she means what she says, if one wrong person realizes he’s inhuman rumors will get back to European hunters. Les Argents perhaps, or the Pfeiffer. They’ll find him, torture him to give up his sisters, then force him to change and sell his skin as a novelty to corrupt officers. Worse, they’ll bargain him to the enemy Gestapo in exchange for prisoners. Derek has heard all the stories: with no society left to hold them to their creed, beast hunters are making a private fortune.

"Stay here. I promise I’ll be back," the woman says, and he hears a door bang shut.

The cool air rests still on his bandages, but it’s an indoor chill, not as biting as the frost of Bastogne in winter. From the sounds of humans and machinery click-clacking above him, she’s dropped him in a cellar. So he hopes, because the logical alternative is a dungeon. He’s hungry, itchy, and still bleeding from too many places when true darkness takes him at last.

"Well, Officer," says the same woman’s voice sometime later. "You’re not as bad off as I thought. It’s a good thing I brought you down here…you’ve torn gashes in the iron gurney holding you up. If you can manage it, I’d like to move you to a cot where you’ll do less damage. How are your eyes?"

Derek takes slow breaths as he answers. His wounds have healed significantly, but not enough to walk or run. He can finally see light filtering through his head bandage. She spoon-fed twice in the night, and every instinct so far is luring him to believe this so-called nurse is trustworthy. But he’s loathe to take off the blindfold lest it break the spell. Right now, his nurse is a benevolent mystery. Once he sees her face and learns her name, she becomes another liability.

Her hand rests on his upturned palm, smaller than his own but calloused with years of labor and skill. She squeezes his fingers in reassurance, and he answers, “They’ve healed. You can take the bandage off.”

When she unwinds the cotten and candlelight dances in his rejuvenated vision, he finally sees the woman that’s been so diligantly keeping him isolated from the other marines. Though her voice had sounded low for a woman, it’s not from age. She can’t be a day over twenty, with night-dark hair, and a square jaw. A small pendant clips her uniforn and the collar, and the uniform itself is of noticable quality. She’s entirely too beautiful to be a woman who works for a living. Even in the midst of war a bird like this ought to be tucked away in a village hamlet or a glamorous city, married to her fortune. 

Without meaning to, Derek finds himself smiling at her. No matter what brought her to his side, he’s glad of it.

"I haven’t seen a face this handsome in a frontline hospital in ages," she remarks, showing her dimples in return. "That knack for healing must be quite the lucky draw for you."

"It has its advantages," Derek agrees. He almost blurts out how enchanting he finds her, but there are more pressing questions. "How do you know what I am?"

As she answers, the nurse slips one hand under his back and guides him to a sitting position. Derek finds it at once easier to breathe. “As a translator of French and Italian, I make the rounds,” she says. “I heard rumors that one of your kind was serving here, so when your army sent its injured back to the city, I checked consnstantly for the right person or the right corpse. That’s how I found you. Lt. Hale. Once it was clear you’d live, I couldn’t risk your discovery til you were strong enough to defend yourself.”

Their eyes meet, and Derek asks softly, “Your accent may be American, but you’ve been moving with the lines through the Belgium front. Who are you?”

Her smile is as radiant as the moon when she replies, and it takes Derek’s breath away just as her words rip apart his fragile trust.

"My name is Allison Argent, Mr. Hale, and I’m going to keep you safe."


	10. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future isn't so dark, my friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from @strawwolf: "Describe your perfect Dallison scenario."

Allison lives from her injury, and her dad whisks her away to Europe to get treatment. Her recovery is slow, almost a year of physical therapy and training before she is strong again. By then, she wants to go back to Beacon Hills, but she’s now 19 and done with her initial school. Her dad wants her to go to college, but she decides to go to college in California, because she needs to go back and face the world she left behind.

She goes home, and finds out that Scott, Kira, Stiles, and Malia are going to community college in the area. Lydia has moved because she got into Berkeley, about two hours away. Allison decides to take her first 2 years at the community college as well, since her high school situation was so disrupted with her injury. She is back in Beacon Hills, and the group is together (Lydia visits) and it’s good. Scary sometimes, but good. Derek is nowhere to be found, traveling the world with Braeden, often in touch with Scott, but mostly out of sight and out of mind.

They all transfer to university, except Malia who gets her A.A. and says fuck it to more schooling. Allison ends up going to a CSU, and they all stay in Northern California, one way or another. They meet regularly at Beacon Hills, Scott more than most, to keep an eye on any weird stuff that might be happening. Chris Argent stays in town, and keeps them appraised.

When she gets her degree in criminal justice, Allison goes home and applies for a job at the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Dept. Academy training is six months, and then another three months of probation, but finally she’s a genuine Deputy.

Her first call the day she takes the car out on her own rounds is to answer a disturbance at a bar in town. She barges in, waves her badge, and immediately arrests three guys for being in a bar fight: Mikhail Jones, Rob McCarthy, and Derek Hale.

Let’s just say it–handcuffing Derek and shoving him into her patrol car is the professional highlight of Allison’s month.

Having him go down on her a week later in the back of that same patrol car comes a pretty close second, though.


End file.
